He drags the dagger down his back, slowly, with enough control that it only
parts the top few layers of skin - unless it's crossing an existing harsh
stroke left by the cane, and that's where the blood oozes up again.
When the edge of the dagger hits a particularly nasty weal, it's like a spark hitting gasoline. He's nothing but sensation, nothing but fuel, and he ignites in an instant. He comes in his pants, loudly, suddenly, utterly; he's been overwhelmed in the best way and suddenly all the built-up pleasure is rushing through him, inevitable and ecstatic.
He tries to hold himself still for Astarion, even through the utter white-out of his mind, by instinct and by sheer luck; it happens so abruptly he barely has time to move, except for a tiny shudder that brings up the blood just a little bit more.
Astarion sheaths the knife quickly but he presses close with his body
instead, his chest crushed to the black and blue tapestry of Jedao's back,
his own hardness obvious against his ass. He doesn't care about that. All
he wants is to feel Jedao shuddering against him as those crossed wires of
pain and pleasure cut him to pieces.
He wails as Astarion presses against him, setting every nick and welt and bruise on his back searing and singing again, fresh all over again, all at once. He can feel Astarion's dick and that's perfect too, proof even more incontrovertible than Astarion's purring praise that he wants this, wants Jedao like this. It's also, just, so hot. As soon as the knife is gone the little subconscious switch in his mind is free to move, and his shudders get bigger, wilder, the orgasm going on and on as if it might shake him apart.
"Noyou," Jedao slurs, breathelessly, when it's finally over. He's hanging between the cuffs and the press of Astarion's body but he feels like he's floating. "Youperfct."
He wouldn't have minded if Astarion wanted to keep going, blissed-out on endorphins as he is. You can do anything you want to me, whispers a flash of memory, in his own voice, tinged with a desperation that feels as far away as the universe it came from, and it disappears again into the fog of aching contentment.
He loves the feeling of Astarion's arms holding him, and when his wrists are released he lets them drift down, shakily, as he slowly leans more of his weight back against Astarion's chest - which puts more pressure on all the welts and bruises, causing him to shudder and moan all over again.
"The gods themselves sent you to test me," Astarion sighs, in lieu of doing anything more unwise involving his extreme levels of interest in the way he's moving, the sounds he's making. "Don't tell anybody I'm being nice, people might develop expectations. My niceness is highly selective."
He very, very gradually starts helping Jedao away from the saltire and towards the soft furniture, a little less sure of himself in caretaking - moreso now than last time, given that this was rather more intense.
Jedao wobbles happily in whatever direction he's nudged. He could pull himself together, if he had to. Surely. I'm a sniper, says an instinct that isn't his, at all. My hands never shake.
But he doesn't have to, and it's glorious. He'll collapse or curl up or sprawl more-or-less wherever Astarion puts him; he's basically high as a kite on his own pain right now.
Astarion carefully lowers them down onto a sofa, large and plush enough to provide support without applying too much pressure on anything sore. Jedao is directed to, at the very least, not put his entire weight on his back. The Mage Hand is pressed into service to bring a bottle of water, but Astarion isn't going to try to make him drink or position himself in a particular way or - to do anything. All he needs is to rest and bask and not think, and Astarion can breathe deeply in the strange scent of his blood, absorb his shivers of pain and pleasure.
Jedao does drink the water. It won't actually rehydrate him but it makes his throat feel less dry, and also gives himself something to do with his mouth, which are his only real concerns at the moment. He ends up sort of sideways draped on Astarion's shoulder, legs tucked up underneath him, making soft little sighs and squeaks as he settles.
The sounds are maddening, truly. For all that he smells odd and his blood
is probably quite bad for him, Astarion wants nothing more than to pin him
down and sink his teeth into his throat, to rut against him, to indulge
like some mindless animal. But he can also see how that might be a very
short route to never being invited back here, and he wants that much more.
He calms. Takes deep breaths, strokes Jedao's hair in a slow rhythm, and
lets him take all the time he needs.
It's a while: not that he needs the time to decompress, exactly, but that he's so absolutely content, so delightedly satisfied, that he just drifts and basks in the easy, golden feeling for a long time.
"You really are marvelous," Jedao says softly, without moving an inch, when he's finally thinking in complete sentences again. "That was - exactly what I needed, today. Is there - anything else you'd like?"
"Not that you haven't already given me," he murmurs. His erection is
subsiding, his hunger no longer quite so acute, and he doesn't really
understand that someone on his side of these affairs might need some
looking after.
"Okay," Jedao answers, nuzzling a little against Astarion's shoulder. "But just so you know, you're allowed. You're so damn good to me. I want you to feel - taken care of, too. If you want that."
"Pampered," Astarion murmurs, sounding amused by the idea more than
anything else. "You said. I still don't really know what that would look
like, but trust me when I say that I do not feel deprived with you."
"When I'm on the other side of things I'm very needy afterward," Jedao admits. "I have to know I've...done well, that I'm still wanted. But it's not the same for everyone."
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"Pleasepleasepleaseplease," Jedao begs, barely aware he's even capable of forming words out loud, barely aware what he's asking for, beyond more.
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"You sound so good when you beg."
He drags the dagger down his back, slowly, with enough control that it only parts the top few layers of skin - unless it's crossing an existing harsh stroke left by the cane, and that's where the blood oozes up again.
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He tries to hold himself still for Astarion, even through the utter white-out of his mind, by instinct and by sheer luck; it happens so abruptly he barely has time to move, except for a tiny shudder that brings up the blood just a little bit more.
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Astarion sheaths the knife quickly but he presses close with his body instead, his chest crushed to the black and blue tapestry of Jedao's back, his own hardness obvious against his ass. He doesn't care about that. All he wants is to feel Jedao shuddering against him as those crossed wires of pain and pleasure cut him to pieces.
"Perfect," he purrs in his ear. "Hells, darling."
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"Noyou," Jedao slurs, breathelessly, when it's finally over. He's hanging between the cuffs and the press of Astarion's body but he feels like he's floating. "Youperfct."
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Astarion's laughter is honestly rather gentle.
"I'm going to uncuff your arms and help you get somewhere comfortable so you can rest, pet. Just relax, move in your own time. I've got you."
He's actually going to just hold onto Jedao with both arms and let Mage Hand do the work of opening his cuffs, one by one.
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He wouldn't have minded if Astarion wanted to keep going, blissed-out on endorphins as he is. You can do anything you want to me, whispers a flash of memory, in his own voice, tinged with a desperation that feels as far away as the universe it came from, and it disappears again into the fog of aching contentment.
He loves the feeling of Astarion's arms holding him, and when his wrists are released he lets them drift down, shakily, as he slowly leans more of his weight back against Astarion's chest - which puts more pressure on all the welts and bruises, causing him to shudder and moan all over again.
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"The gods themselves sent you to test me," Astarion sighs, in lieu of doing anything more unwise involving his extreme levels of interest in the way he's moving, the sounds he's making. "Don't tell anybody I'm being nice, people might develop expectations. My niceness is highly selective."
He very, very gradually starts helping Jedao away from the saltire and towards the soft furniture, a little less sure of himself in caretaking - moreso now than last time, given that this was rather more intense.
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Jedao wobbles happily in whatever direction he's nudged. He could pull himself together, if he had to. Surely. I'm a sniper, says an instinct that isn't his, at all. My hands never shake.
But he doesn't have to, and it's glorious. He'll collapse or curl up or sprawl more-or-less wherever Astarion puts him; he's basically high as a kite on his own pain right now.
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Astarion carefully lowers them down onto a sofa, large and plush enough to provide support without applying too much pressure on anything sore. Jedao is directed to, at the very least, not put his entire weight on his back. The Mage Hand is pressed into service to bring a bottle of water, but Astarion isn't going to try to make him drink or position himself in a particular way or - to do anything. All he needs is to rest and bask and not think, and Astarion can breathe deeply in the strange scent of his blood, absorb his shivers of pain and pleasure.
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The sounds are maddening, truly. For all that he smells odd and his blood is probably quite bad for him, Astarion wants nothing more than to pin him down and sink his teeth into his throat, to rut against him, to indulge like some mindless animal. But he can also see how that might be a very short route to never being invited back here, and he wants that much more.
He calms. Takes deep breaths, strokes Jedao's hair in a slow rhythm, and lets him take all the time he needs.
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"You really are marvelous," Jedao says softly, without moving an inch, when he's finally thinking in complete sentences again. "That was - exactly what I needed, today. Is there - anything else you'd like?"
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"Not that you haven't already given me," he murmurs. His erection is subsiding, his hunger no longer quite so acute, and he doesn't really understand that someone on his side of these affairs might need some looking after.
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"Pampered," Astarion murmurs, sounding amused by the idea more than anything else. "You said. I still don't really know what that would look like, but trust me when I say that I do not feel deprived with you."
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"Ah, I see. No, I can't say I've ever had that kind of issue."
He always assumes he's not really wanted, except for whatever service he can offer. Extremely cunning!
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"Ah, yes. Because doing this is so relentlessly selfless," he chuckles - then sobers, slightly. "...Thank you."
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